


what the night does to the day

by andchaos



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: ??? what even are tags tbh, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Language, but i mean it's mostly chill idek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchaos/pseuds/andchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey have been best friends since childhood. Sometimes things just fit together perfectly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what the night does to the day

**Author's Note:**

> Basically each section flips between ages until it meets in the middle. That'll make sense as you read, I swear.

SIX/EIGHTEEN

 

          Ian pumped his legs hard, but no matter how much he tried, his stupid swing wouldn’t go any higher. He was barely moving anyway, his swing just swaying slightly with the wind. Ian kicked the way he did that day he almost drowned at the public pool, but like trying to propel himself to the surface, he got minimal results.

          He was so busy trying to push himself airborne that he didn’t notice the boy wander over to him until he stood a few feet away, hands on his little hips and a glare contorting his entire face.

          “Move,” the boy said in a tone that suggested he almost always got his wish one way or another.

          Ian blinked up at him. His hands tightened where they were coiled around the rope suspending the swing.

          “Are you slow or something?” the boy demanded. “Get off my swing!”

          Ian shook his head minutely but hard, his curls flopping in his face with the movement. “It’s not your swing,” he said, his lower lip jutting out when his mouth curled. “Ain’t got your name on it.”

          “Well I _ain’t_ —” the boy punctuated this with a hard jab to Ian’s chest, and he recoiled, curling in on himself a little, “askin’, ginger! I come here every day and this is _my_ swing.”

          Ian sat up straighter and fixed the boy with a glower of his own, and though he seemed unimpressed, Ian didn’t waver. “Look, my mama took my kid brother on a trip four days ago and she hasn’t been back! So my sister took me to this park to play and I don’t wanna go home to just my dad so I’m gonna stay here on this swing until my mom comes home!”

          He didn’t realize his chin was trembling until the other boy took a careful step back, possibly to get out of the way of Ian’s legs, which were still flailing in a desperate attempt to swing by himself. He looked away while the boy studied him, grunting slightly from the effort of kicking his legs so much, until the boy sat down on the swing next to him and his eyes snapped back to him.

          “You’re kickin’ all wrong,” the boy muttered. “You wanna get off the ground, you gotta do it like this.”

          Ian watched him as he started up a rhythm, and despite Ian trying his best for the past fifteen minutes, this boy was swinging alone in under a minute. Ian bit his tongue, reluctantly impressed.

          “How long have you been swinging by yourself?”

          As he asked, he tentatively tried to copy the boy’s movements. The boy watched him with what Ian was pretty sure was encouragement, not malice, as Ian began to get the hang of it.

          “Few years,” he said, picking at a scab on his palm. “My brother taught me when I was six.”

          “I’m six,” said Ian.

          The boy snorted and ran his eyes over Ian once, twice, then finally said, “That makes me the boss of you. I’m eight, and since I’m older, what I say goes.”

          Ian rolled his eyes. “That’s not a rule,” he said. “My brother Lip is older than me, and so is my sister Fiona, and they told me not to let _anyone_ push me around.”

          The boy didn’t answer like he thought he would; instead he dug his heels into the dirt, effectively stopping his movement, eyed Ian up again, and said, “You’re a Gallagher kid?”

          Ian lifted his chin a little, though it did nothing to help with his height disadvantage. “Yeah. So?”

          The boy just scoffed and started swinging again. “My brother told me not to hang out with the Gallagher kids.”

          “You’re not. You’re only with one Gallagher kid,” he pointed out. Then added, “I’m Ian.”

          The boy ignored his outstretched hand, and after a few seconds Ian grabbed the rope again and resumed swinging as well.

          “Mickey,” the boy said finally, and Ian looked around at him just as he jumped off the swing. He landed neatly on his feet and scratched at one of his eyebrows. “My dad’s gone, so we’ve got some extra room. If you think you can stomach the big scary Milkovich house.”

          He smirked and with that, started to walk away, ignoring Ian calling after him. Ian jumped down, scraping his knee on the landing, but he ignored the stinging to get up and run after him. He chased him halfway across the playground before he caught up and fell into step beside Mickey, who immediately shouldered him hard. Ian laughed and shoved him back. Mickey grinned over at him, and they fell into a happy silence as Mickey led the long walk towards home.

 

-

 

          Ian didn’t realize he wasn’t alone in the house anymore until he felt arms slip around his waist, and a second later, a face pressing between his shoulder blades. Not the least bit startled at the intrusion, he reached back to scrub a hand through Mickey’s hair before he returned to making himself lunch.

          “You want grilled cheese?” he offered when Mickey didn’t say anything. “I can throw some more bread on.”

          Mickey nodded against his back, and when Ian moved to get the loaf on the other side of the counter, Mickey’s arms fell away and he turned to lean beside the stove instead, elbows propped up on the countertop. Ian glanced at him as he started a new sandwich in the pan, but didn’t press.

          After a few minutes in silence, Mickey exhaled in a huff and said, “Dad’s home.”

          Ian nodded, mostly to himself. “Again?” he asked in a steady voice. “What’d he get off for this time?”

          “Pretty sure he bribed one of the guards. Stupid fuck got off five weeks early for this shit?”

          Ian pressed his lips together but didn’t say anything, deliberating as he pressed cheese between the bread and flipped both the sandwiches over. “You want to postpone?” he asked, his eyes trained on his spatula.

          In his periphery, he could see Mickey running his hand through his hair, and he sighed again, loudly. “No,” he said finally. “No, I don’t. I just don’t—don’t know how we’re…”

          He didn’t finish, and Ian turned, abandoning their food. He brushed his hand over Mickey’s, waited until Mickey turned his palm over before he slipped their fingers together, and used his other to slide over Mickey’s jaw, cradling his cheek. His thumb rubbed in slow, gentle circles, and Mickey closed his eyes.

          “We’re gonna figure it out,” Ian promised, and Mickey looked up at him. “Even if we have to…to leave in the night or something,” he added. That at least earned him a tiny smile. “I’m serious, Mickey. You’re all packed, right? We can just, like, sneak in tonight, steal all your shit, and bring it back here to load onto the moving van tomorrow morning. Okay?”

          “Yeah, yeah, okay.” Mickey reached up to wrap his fingers around Ian’s wrist, holding him by his face, and Ian smiled and leaned forwards to knock their foreheads together lightly.

          “Gonna be my live-in trophy boyfriend,” Ian said, now fighting a laugh. “Got an apartment, gonna have you all to myself.”

          Mickey scoffed and struggled briefly against his hold, but leaned up willingly when Ian pressed their lips together, gentle. Ian snaked his hands free of Mickey’s as he pushed him further back with his hips, hands on the counter on either side of Mickey’s waist like a cage. Mickey caught Ian’s face in his own hands, drawing his mouth down to his, never letting him go for a second as he kissed him breathless. Ian was just trailing his tongue—light, teasing—against Mickey’s lip when the smoke detector beeped loudly, and they jumped away from each other, banging painfully into one another as they parted.

          As Ian rushed to cool off and salvage their ruined lunch, Mickey laughed himself silly, falling in on himself by the counter.

          “As long as you’re not gonna be my live-in cook,” Mickey gasped between breaths, and Ian shot him a glare as he rushed around for plates.

          “Fuck you. I’ll eat your fucking lunch, see how smart your mouth is starving.”

          Mickey seemed unaffected by Ian’s continued glower as he reached over and tore off a bit of crust, popping it into his mouth with a smug grin. Ian rolled his eyes and carried both plates over to the counter, sliding into a seat while Mickey leaned across towards him.

          They didn’t speak much as they ate, although Mickey occasionally threw in a rude comment about how burned and tasteless his lunch was.

          Mickey slept in Ian’s bed that night, with Ian curled around his back and his arm tight around Mickey’s waist. In the morning, when Mickey’s phone woke them both with fourteen missed calls from his father, they shoved their belongings into the U-Haul as quickly as possible, and Ian laced their fingers together as they headed for their car.

          “Let’s go home.”

 

 

 

SEVEN/SEVENTEEN

 

          Ian frowned over at his best friend, and reached out to trail his fingers over the latest cut on his skin. Mickey flinched away from him, and Ian retracted his hand, his frown deepening.

          “That one’s new,” he accused.

          Mickey shrugged, gaze darting away from his. Ian hopped off his chair by the counter, passing Mickey the popsicle he was sucking on, and rushed up the stairs without another word. Mickey didn’t even call after him, too used to this routine, as Ian darted into the bathroom, ignoring Fiona where she was doing her hair by the sink, and clambered onto the closed toilet so he could reach across into the medicine cabinet. Fiona shouted out as he jerked it open, effectively disrupting her view of the mirror, but he ignored her in favor of groping around for the box he wanted. Fiona crushed the bandaids into his hand, annoyed, and he barely thanked her as he hopped off the toilet and dashed back out of the room, leaving his sister to finish her hair in peace.

          Mickey was still sitting at the counter when Ian returned, alternating licks between their popsicles, and he ignored the annoyed look Ian sent him as he took his popsicle back. Mickey just grinned, which quickly turned into an eye roll when Ian dug around in the box and unearthed a bandaid from within.

          “ _Ian_ ,” he whined, kicking his feet, but he didn’t move away as Ian climbed onto his knees and undid the wrapping with sticky fingers.

          “Shut up, you’ve got a cool one. It’s Scooby Doo, see?”

          Ian smacked the bandaid over his eyebrow and then smoothed it down much more gently. Mickey glanced over his shoulder and around the room, then beckoned Ian in with a nod of his head, and Ian planted his usual kiss over the covered wound.

          “You’re such a dork,” said Mickey, shoving Ian back and returning to his snack.

          Unfazed, Ian settled back happily on his stool and went back to polishing off his own treat. Mickey told him about what he did to a girl that was being rude to Mandy while Ian finished eating and started sucking the stickiness off his fingers.

          “You wanna play soldiers again?” Ian asked when Mickey was done, and they threw their popsicle sticks down on the counter and jumped down, immediately caught up in a chase complete with fake guns and paper towel-tube swords.

          A few days later, when Mickey sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor so Ian could kiss his bandaid again right before he carefully peeled it back to ask, “Better?” Mickey nodded and assured him, “Better.”

 

-

 

          “You’ve got to stop getting into so many fights,” Ian sighed, tracing a finger lightly over the scab on Mickey’s temple. Mickey grumbled and fidgeted beneath him, and Ian used his free hand to grab one of Mickey’s and pin it to the mattress beside his head. He pressed his body down firmly against Mickey’s to ensure that he was well and truly trapped, and resumed making slow circles around his cut with his index finger.

          “No one told you to worry like you’re my fucking mother,” Mickey pointed out, settling further back into his pillow.

          “You know,” said Ian, ignoring him completely, “I heard that temple shots can literally kill you if there’s enough force behind it.”

          “I heard that worrying so much can bust a blood vessel or three. You should probably stop that too.”

          “I’ll stop giving a shit if you stop doing ridiculous stupid shit,” Ian promised with a grin.

          He leaned down to press his lips lightly to the injury. He hovered there for a few seconds before making a slow line down to his cheek.

          “Better?” he breathed.

          “Almost.”

          Mickey dragged his free hand up to tangle in Ian’s hair, pulling him down to his mouth. Ian let his lips fall freely where Mickey wanted them, and when he seemed momentarily satisfied with the kissing, Ian pulled away just enough to speak.

          “How about now?”

          Mickey chuckled and jabbed him painfully in the ribs. “How’s a head wound supposed to heal if my stupid boyfriend won’t shut up long enough to kiss it better?”

          Ian ducked back down dutifully to capture his lips again, and Mickey kissed him back eagerly, leaning up every time Ian so much as gave a hint of stopping so as to drag him back in. Ian untangled their fingers so he could run his hands down Mickey’s bare sides, stopping at his hips, and he hauled him further down the bed until his head slipped off the pillows and Ian was on top of him completely. The new position made a much easier job for him of devouring Mickey’s mouth however he wanted. He tugged Mickey’s hips up against his own, willingly swallowing the groan that followed, and leaned to mouth at his neck instead.

          “ _Ian_.”

          The moan came with the leg Mickey hitched up around his waist. Ian ground down on him as one of his hands trailed down to tease his ass.

          Ian repressed his smile as he licked his neck once, tongue flat, marking the perfect spot for him to fit his mouth around when he went back in and started to suck. Mickey made another chest-deep sound as Ian’s finger stroked over his rim, threatening entry with every pass.

          “How you feeling now?” Ian murmured, lips moving against his skin when he spoke.

          “Better,” Mickey gasped. “Good God, so much better.”

 

 

 

EIGHT/SIXTEEN

 

          Ian fell hard on his elbow when he scrambled through the window, and he wasn’t entirely surprised that a few seconds after he cried out, the light flicked on. He looked up and there Mickey was, standing over him with his hands on his hips and his eyes narrowed in a glare.

          “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

          Ian got to his feet, still studying his hurt arm for a second before he decided he would live. He dropped his arm and looked up at Mickey, and shrugged.

          “Mom won’t get out of bed again,” he said, impressed with himself when he kept his voice steady. “Fiona keeps waking me up yelling at her to move, and Carl won’t stop crying.”

          Mickey raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything, so Ian forged on.

          “Can I stay here tonight?” he asked, rocking back on the balls of his feet and spearing him with a look that always made Lip huffily accept whatever he was asking.

          Mickey regarded him suspiciously for a second. Ian clasped his hands behind his back and kept shifting restlessly on his feet, until finally Mickey sighed and turned around wordlessly. He climbed into his bed, but Ian didn’t move until Mickey was underneath his covers and patting the space next to him. His bed was small, not made to share, but they made room, making sure the other fit. Like they always did.

          Ian had to shift around until he could find a comfortable position, and Mickey snapped at him a few times, but Ian just stuck his tongue out and went back to his restless fidgeting. Finally Mickey kicked his shin to get his attention, and Ian looked up to see him lying on his stomach, his arm lifted in the air. He grinned and shuffled closer, and Mickey’s arm closed over his waist with a gruff, “You done yet, shithead?”

          Ian nodded and burrowed even closer to him. Mickey’s breathing evened out again quickly enough, but Ian was thrumming with energy from the sprint over here and from being so close to Mickey, tucked against his best friend. The bed squeaked with every bounce of the mattress and finally Mickey, sounding harassed at being woken twice, snapped, “Would you stop jiggling your goddamn knee?”

          “I can’t _help_ it.” Ian beat his little fist against the bed, frowning over at Mickey. “I’m not _tired_. I wanna play.”

          “I ain’t playing,” Mickey grumbled, turning his face the other way and settling back into his pillow. “M’sleeping.”

          “ _Mickey_ ,” he nearly whined, poking at his ribs while Mickey hissed at him. “Wake up!”

          He required another ten minutes of mixed complaints, bribes, and entreaties, but finally Mickey opened his eyes and followed Ian when he climbed off the bed, and they went in search of something to use to play catch.

          “I knew it,” Ian said a half hour later, grinning triumphantly despite Mickey making yet another pitch fly over his head. “You always want to play.”

          Mickey rolled his eyes but didn’t refute him. Ian smiled in all his gap-toothed glory, and threw the ball back to him.

 

-

 

          Mickey was still sleeping when Ian awoke, trapped beneath his boyfriend’s arm around his back. He had to wrestle and maneuver his way free just to stumble into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take his pills. With his dad back in jail after Mickey’s spectacularly loud and aggressive coming out a few weeks prior, Mickey hadn’t protested Ian moving some essentials into his bedroom.

          Mickey was still sleeping when he went back into his room, so Ian didn’t feel too bad about leaving him for a little while longer while he scavenged for food. The Milkovich house was empty this morning, so he didn’t bother dressing as he went to make himself some toast.

          Mickey had rolled off his side onto his stomach in Ian’s absence, and as soon as Ian slipped back into bed, Mickey made a tiny snuffling noise and flung his arm back over Ian’s waist. Ian looked down at him for a minute, not moving, just smiling—watching the way his hair pushed back so messily without any gel in it, like it permanently had Ian’s hands in it; how his hand closed over Ian’s hip, and tiny wrinkles smoothed out of his forehead where Ian hadn’t even noticed them persisting; how, when Ian trailed his index finger down his hairline and then smoothed over an eyebrow, Mickey’s lips parted like the very beginnings of a smile.

          Ian watched him for awhile before he shimmied down the bed, just enough that their faces were level. They were closer now, and Ian could see even more of his freckles than usual. He turned to press his lips to Mickey’s bare shoulder and Mickey mumbled in his sleep as he burrowed further into his pillow. Ian grinned to himself and turned to trail his lips down Mickey’s cheek instead. Mickey’s brow furrowed, and his head turned the other way like his sleeping self was trying to half-heartedly ward off an annoyance before it woke him. Ian crawled completely out of his hold—he didn’t miss the way Mickey’s hand clenched in the sheets on his side at his disappearance—and slid his leg over both of Mickey’s so he was laying over him when he started pressing kisses in lines all across his back.

          Mickey shifted beneath his lips, but Ian didn’t let up until he heard him say, in a voice like his mouth was mashed against the pillow, “The fuck’re you doing, shithead?”

          Ian laughed and pressed another kiss to his back, right over his spine. “Nothing,” he said as innocently as possible.

          Mickey grumbled something else and shifted restlessly, and Ian lifted off him enough that he could turn over. His glare was spectacularly unimpressive, possibly just because of how sleep-mussed he looked with pillow lines imprinted in his cheek and his eyes squinting from the light. Ian smiled goofily at him for a few seconds before leaning to resume his work, fluttering little kisses down his jaw and neck.

          “M’ _sleeping_.”

          Ian smiled, dragged his lips up to his chin, and kissed him lightly there. So close to his mouth, but not quite. Just enough to hopefully get him wanting.

          “Wake _up_ ,” Ian coaxed in a stage-whisper, drawing out the last syllable to a ridiculous length, his voice lilting like in song. And then again: “I wanna _play_.”

          Mickey tried very hard to fight his answering smile, but Ian had him long since memorized.

          “Oh yeah? What if I don’t wanna play?”

          Ian rolled his eyes. “You always wanna play,” he pointed out.

          A second later Mickey had his arms around Ian’s neck and he was pulling him down into a heavy, dirty kiss. Ian, after all, knew him incredibly well.

 

 

 

NINE/FIFTEEN

 

          “Wish I was rich enough to hire throne-carriers,” said Mickey. He pointed at the television, where they were watching a cartoon movie, in which the queen had a group of servants carrying her throne on their shoulders as she paraded through the town. Mickey lifted his arms in the air and grinned over at Ian. “Want to carry me around everywhere?”

          Ian rolled his eyes and kicked him hard in the calf, and Mickey laughed and settled back on his elbows, attention straying back to the TV.

          “You should carry _me_ around,” Ian said idly. He sucked on his tongue as he kept watching the show, and did not immediately notice Mickey turn to look at him with raised eyebrows. “What?”

          “Make you a bet,” said Mickey, with a twist to his mouth that always spelled trouble. “Whoever loses has to carry whoever wins. For the rest of the day.”

          “The _day_?” said Ian, glancing at the clock; it was only three. Mickey raised his eyebrows, and Ian said, “Okay.”

          Mickey sat up immediately, crossing his legs and watching Ian with a wide smile. “Okay, so. What’s the bet?”

          “This was your idea! You think of something!”

          Mickey curled his lip at him but quickly dropped the menacing stare, chewing on his lip instead. Ian recognized the signs of his friend zoning out and lost interest, his attention straying back to the tv.

          They went a little while longer in silence, and as another commercial break came to a close, Mickey finally spoke up again.

          “Have you ever done a handstand?”

          “A handstand?” Ian repeated blankly.

          Mickey rolled his eyes. “It’s where you stand on your hands, Ian.” He ignored Ian’s heated, _“I know what a handstand is, Mickey!”_ and kept speaking over him: “Whoever falls over first has to carry the other around for the rest of the day. Okay?”

          Ian wrinkled his nose. “So whoever gets hurt gets screwed, too?”

          Mickey grinned. “More fun that way.”

          He rolled his eyes, but agreed anyway. Losing interest in their movie entirely, Ian hopped to his feet and grabbed Mickey’s hands to pull him up, too. Mickey backed up, giving them both a little more room, and Ian counted down for them.

          “Three…two…one!”

          He was so busy trying not to topple onto his head that he did not immediately realize that Mickey had kicked up so that his legs and back were aligned with the wall, but when he did, he shouted out, “Hey!” and fell right on his face. He quickly got his bearings and sat up crosslegged, rubbing the top of his head and glaring at Mickey.

          “You cheated!” he accused, while Mickey laughed triumphantly and performed a messy, awkward half-handspring to get back to his feet, nearly falling over as well in the process.

          “I didn’t say you couldn’t use support!” Mickey pointed out, hands on his hips and a wicked smile on his face.

          Ian rolled his eyes, but sighed and turned around anyway, arms out behind him. “Come on then, doucheface.”

          Mickey was laughing again as he clamored up onto Ian’s back. Ian hunched a bit as Mickey settled on top of him, but he hefted him up anyway, locking his arms around Mickey’s legs to secure him there.

          “So, your highness,” Ian said in his best regal voice. “Where d’you wanna go first?”

          Mickey directed him around for the rest of the afternoon, demanding that Ian pick him up everywhere he went and put him down wherever he wanted. This mostly involved a lot of trips between the couch and the kitchen—Mickey kept insisting he come on snack breaks so he could peruse his pantry and decide what he wanted—and, once, a mildly traumatizing visit to the bathroom.

          Just after nine, Ian returned from a water break to where he’d deposited Mickey on his bed. Mickey smirked up at him, although the smugness was somewhat offset by the grabby hands gesture he made, like a toddler demanding his mother pick him up.

          “Let’s go, carrot top. I wanna watch The Bourne Identity again.”

          Ian rolled his eyes but crouched next to the bed so Mickey could once again clamor into his tired arms.

          “Just three more hours,” Ian sighed, mostly to himself, as he stumbled for the doorway.

          Mickey rapped his knuckles hard against the top of Ian’s head. “Listen, fuckface—”

          “Would you _relax_?” Ian shifted Mickey on his back a little, searching for a comfortable position.

          Mickey grumbled but was quiet as Ian made his way, slowly, tiredly, into the living room. He was just rounding the corner when Mickey shuffled restlessly on his back again, and Ian’s exhaustion won out; his arms and back folded at the same time as his legs, and he stumbled sidelong into the wall. His head cracked against the edge of a corner as he went down, with Mickey heavy deadweight on top of him.

          “Shit!” he yelped, right as Mickey groaned, “Oh, fuck me—”

          Ian managed to shoulder Mickey off of him, and Mickey was rubbing at his reddened jaw when Ian rolled to look at him, pressing hard against the throbbing pain on his skull. He curled his lip up as he whined, the pressure on the bruise sharp and momentarily deafening. Mickey glanced down at his mouth and started to laugh.

          “Holy shit—you chipped a fuckin’ tooth, man!”

          “What the hell?” Ian probed at his gums, which, now that the ache in his head had dulled slightly, was throbbing unpleasantly. “Shit. Shit.”

          Mickey fell over laughing at the bruised, slightly bloody picture Ian was currently painting, and he ignored the protest of his mouth so he could stick out his tongue. Mickey kept laughing though, and eventually Ian had to just roll his eyes and laugh with him, injuries be damned.

 

-

 

          The door slammed loudly into the wall when Ian shoved it open, and he jumped up, twisting around in the air so he landed facing the other way, grinning out at Mickey on the Milkoviches’ front porch.

          “And we—kicked— _ass_!” he shouted.

          Mickey laughed and slapped the hands Ian was holding up for a double high-five.

          “You’re damn _right_ we did!” Mickey yelled, just as triumphant. “ _Fuck_ yes, I _cannot_ believe your fuckin’ brother conned us two tickets to front row seats to biggest fucking wrestling match of the year!”

          He pumped his fist in the air for a second before Ian launched himself at Mickey, getting him in a headlock.

          “Oh yeah?” Ian taunted, while Mickey struggled in his hold. “Gonna show him your everlasting gratitude?”

          “I ain’t thanking him! Maybe his batshit twisted girlfriend who made him stay home, _ha_. Those tickets were mine, bitch.”

          All at once, Mickey maneuvered out of Ian’s grip and grabbed him around the middle, and they wrestled their way out of the foyer and into the living room, grappling and punching and running each other into walls. Ian got him backed up against the wall beside the television, smirking down at him despite the grip Mickey had, threatening, in his hair. Mickey raised his eyebrows at him like he knew exactly what Ian was thinking, and twisted free of him before he could lean forwards.

          He didn’t say anything, just raised a finger in a silent request to hold on as he went darting through the house. Ian could hear him calling out as he ran from room to room, checking for lingering members of his family. He leaned against the wall he’d just had Mickey backed up against, tapping his foot and waiting for his return.

          Mickey came back a minute later, and Ian couldn’t help the smile that stretched over his face when he saw the same expression mirrored on Mickey’s. The euphoric excitement from watching the match returned all at once, and he shouted out again as he pushed off the wall. Mickey had his arms held out when Ian rushed him, and he crouched when Ian got close, catching him low around the waist so he could hoist him up into the air. Ian’s legs wrapped around his back as Mickey spun them around, and Ian let out a wild laugh towards the ceiling. Mickey’s arms were tight on his waist, almost on his ass, and he was sure his legs were squeezing Mickey just as hard. He looked down when Mickey’s circle started to slow, and Mickey was looking up at him, eyes and smile bright. Ian flung his arms around his neck and leaned down just as Mickey stretched up, meeting halfway in a hard kiss that was too difficult to maintain through their smiles.

          Mickey stumbled back with the weight of Ian on his hips, pressing forwards into the kiss, and his back hit the wall hard enough that even Ian felt the jolt. The breath rushed out of him even though Mickey seemed to take the worst of it; and one of Mickey’s teeth dragged painfully over his lip as they tumbled gracelessly to the floor.

          “ _Fuck_!” Ian shouted, as Mickey let out a string of expletives of his own. He tumbled backwards, trying to disentangle his limbs from Mickey’s. When he finally sat up and touched his lip, his finger came away bloody. “Fuck, fuck. Shit, fuck.”

          Mickey was laughing, pausing now and then to grumble a curse and hold a hand to his ribs. Ian slowly tested his limbs to make sure nothing was broken before he crawled forwards, reaching out to touch a hesitant hand to Mickey’s side. Mickey flinched but didn’t shove him off.

          “That was…fucking dumb,” Ian half-laughed. He swiped the back of his hand over his lip, wiping away the trickle of blood on his chin.

          Mickey’s eyes were focused on where his hand had just been. He reached up, thumb rubbing lightly over his cut lip while his palm cradled his jaw. “Fucking dumb,” he agreed, even as he leaned up to kiss him softly.

          Ian groaned at the pressure on his injury, and Mickey pulled away coughing and holding his ribs again.

          “No…kissing,” he said, wincing.

          Ian pouted a little at that proposition, but all his new bruises were throbbing dully on his skin, and he nodded in agreement instead of protesting.

          “You should think about going to the gym,” Ian suggested later, when they were cleaning themselves up in the bathroom. Mickey threw him an offended look, and Ian pinched his arm, grinning. “Can’t hold and kiss your boyfriend at the same time. Fucking pathetic.”

          Mickey threw down the bloodstained rag he was holding and grabbed him, and Ian dropped the wet paper towels he’d been pressing to his face.

          “I’ll show you pathetic!”

          Ian was laughing, though, as they wrestled and shoved each other backwards, out of the bathroom and towards Mickey’s bed. He’d had worse injuries in his lifetime, after all. This would hardly break him.

 

 

 

TEN/FOURTEEN

 

          Ian didn’t have to turn his head to recognize the body that sat down heavily beside his own on the curb. Mickey reached over after a second to pluck one of the ten dollar bills Ian was holding out of his hand, and he straightened it out and waved it in front of Ian’s face, like he didn’t already have his attention.

          “Look at you with the big bucks,” Mickey teased.

          Ian rolled his eyes and knocked his shoulder hard; even through their t-shirts he could tell that Mickey’s skin was warm, inviting. Ian shifted closer to snatch his money back and left his arm brushing Mickey’s when he sat back.

          “Fiona wants me to do a grocery run,” Ian explained, thwacking Mickey on the head with his tiny pile of bills.

          “So what’re you doing camping out on the sidewalk for?”

          Ian gave a small jerk of his shoulders. “Trying to decide how much trouble I’d get into if I spent the money on bottle rockets instead.” At Mickey’s look of excitement, he added, “Lip wants to jack up the prices and sell them off at school. We wouldn’t use them. Well, most of them.”

          “Go for the rockets, man,” said Mickey, which basically affirmed Ian’s notion that he should spend the cash on groceries. “I wanna set them off in my brother’s room, get that prick back for finishing all my barbecue Pringles every fucking time.”

          Ian knocked their shoulders together again, for no real reason other than some strange desire to feel the press of Mickey’s arm against his.

          “You’re such a tool,” said Ian.

          “A tool with a plan for vengeance.” Mickey smiled and hopped to his feet, and when Ian reached up with both hands in a silent plea, Mickey grabbed them and hauled him up too. “So, you in?”

          “No,” Ian sighed. He glanced at the money in his hand and then back at his friend’s face. He jerked his head to the side and plucked Mickey’s sleeve to get him to follow as he started walking. “I gotta get groceries. Carl’s been living off Cheerios for awhile now, and Fiona’s been feeding us scraps when she gets her bar job for the week, but it’s pretty scrimpy.”

          “I can steal you something from the store,” Mickey offered.

          Ian shrugged. “I can buy groceries,” he muttered, looking down. His mouth twisted down and he didn’t look back up at Mickey, even when he started poking him in the arm.

          “Ian,” Mickey sighed. “Come on. How about you help me take the groceries and you can still scalp those bottle rockets, huh? Even more money for the squirrel fund?”

          The offer was tempting, but before Ian could really make a decision, Mickey grabbed his hand and started leading him off down the street at a quicker pace than before. Ian stumbled along behind him, holding Mickey’s hand tight to keep him from letting go even once he was sure Ian was following. Mickey didn’t say anything about it until they got to the corner store and he had to work to get his hand free. Then he just raised his eyebrows at asked,

          “You my missus now? You gonna hang on my hand all afternoon?”

          Ian stuck out his tongue but let go of him, hoping the blush wasn’t coloring his cheeks too noticeably, not entirely sure why he was blushing at all.

          “Like I want anywhere near your dumb stupid hands,” he lied.

 

-

 

          Mickey shoved Ian hard enough that he almost fell off the sidewalk they were meandering down, but Ian grabbed at Mickey’s arm at the last second and pulled himself back from the curb.

          “I hate you,” Ian laughed. He made a grab for Mickey’s cigarette, but Mickey held it out of his reach before he could. Ian’s fingertips fell just short of his skin. “It’s like, boo hoo, I get to pick the movie for the first time in like, _two months_. It’s not my fault you always pick paper.”

          “Yeah, well it’s pretty fuckin’ ironic that you always pick scissors, but you don’t see me judging you.”

          Ian rolled his eyes at the joke. “Whatever. Can we hurry up? Debbie’s gonna be home soon.” Which means Fiona will follow right after that, bringing Carl and Liam back with her, because she doesn’t trust Debbie alone in the house yet. He and Mickey only have a half hour of alone time tops, less if he doesn’t pick up the pace.

          “Yeah, yeah. What’s the rush?” Mickey took one more long drag of his cigarette, then offered it to Ian. They’d been hanging out in public all day, and Ian was going a little crazy with the careful distance—the slight brush of their fingers when Ian took the cigarette was the closest he’d been to him in three days.

          Ian didn’t answer Mickey’s question, but he quickened his step a little. Mickey grumbled but caught up anyway when Ian started to pull ahead.

          Mickey headed straight for the DVDs when they go to the Gallaghers’, while Ian wandered through the house making sure they were alone. When he got back to the living room, Mickey was sprawled back watching the opening credits, and Ian ground out the cigarette butt then wasted no time in climbing over Mickey, pressing him down so they were laying more fully on the couch. Mickey looked up at him when he threw a leg over his lap, eyebrows raised, but Ian felt his hands settle on his hips and smiled despite the apparent confusion before him.

          He nudged Mickey’s nose with his own, their lips brushing. “Missed you,” he murmured by way of explanation.

          “I’ve been with you all day,” Mickey breathed back.

          “No. Not…Haven’t really.”

          Ian gave into the pull, then, and crushed his mouth to Mickey’s. A hand slid into his hair and tugged a little, and Ian was pretty sure he was about to be devoured in the most intense, fire-driven make out he had ever had the good fortune to experience, but then Mickey turned his head slightly to go back in and in the few seconds their mouths were separated, he whispered playfully, “What, you been distracted or something?”

          Ian laughed, nipped at Mickey’s lip. “Just missed touching you, is all.” He slid his hand down Mickey’s chest, then back up and into his hair. As he went, he murmured, “Here…and here…and here.”

          He leaned back for him, but then Mickey’s hands disappeared off of him and he was being shoved back by the chest, hard enough to put a few inches of distance between them.

          “Wait. What the hell does that mean?”

          “What the hell does what mean?” Ian asked. His brain was already a little fried and he stared down at Mickey’s lips as he spoke, watching them move, watching them turn down sharply.

          “You got a problem with how we conduct ourselves in public, handsy?”

          He sounded annoyed, and when he barred him from another kiss again, Ian sighed and sat up. Mickey was watching him closely, but he looked away, fingers drumming a rhythm on Mickey’s chest.

          “I just…wish we didn’t have to be so careful,” he muttered, watching his hands and avoiding the glare he could feel being leveled at him. “I wanna…I just want to be able to touch you, you know? Even casually. You’re always so antsy when I get anywhere near you.”

          Mickey’s glare turned disgusted, and he shoved Ian off his lap completely. Unprepared for it, Ian fell off without combat, but he scrambled quickly to his feet when Mickey started storming off for the kitchen.

          “Mick, wait!”

          He managed to pin Mickey to the doorway between rooms, caging him in with his arms and staring him down despite his quelling glower.

          “Move.” Mickey pulled at the arm blocking his way into the kitchen, but not hard enough to break Ian’s grip on the door frame. “Ian, _move_.”

          “I didn’t mean it,” Ian rushed out, frazzled enough to give Mickey pause. “Sorry, I just…I didn’t mean I was mad at _you_ , okay? I get it. No, seriously!” Mickey made another aborted attempt at escape, and Ian pressed closer. Mickey had an inch or two on him, but Ian was desperate. “I’m not…I’m not mad at you, promise. I’m just so…fucking _frustrated_ at everything! I’m just in love with my boyfriend and I can’t tell anyone about it, and half the time I can’t kiss him or hold his hand or do anything about it! And I’m just…I fucking _hate it_. But it’s not…I’m not…”

          He trailed off, his aggravation fumbling his tongue, but Mickey’s expression had already softened and he’d begun stroking Ian’s sides through his t-shirt without him noticing.

          “I get it,” Mickey sighed. Ian’s expression pinched; Mickey leaned his forehead to Ian’s. “I do, I swear. You think I don’t want to…to…put my arm around you or kiss you or do everything you want, too? I do. It’s just…”

          “Complicated,” Ian finished, exhaling heavily. “I know.”

          They were quiet for a minute, idly holding each other and thinking miserably of the time, soon, when they would no longer be alone. Then Mickey inexplicably smiled.

          Ian tapped a finger against Mickey’s cheek. “What’s with the smirk?”

          Mickey raised his eyebrows and teased, “So…you’re in love with me, huh?”

          Ian groaned loudly, tipping his head back and releasing his frustration to the ceiling. His arms fell away from around Mickey, and he started to take a step back when strong hands grabbed the front of his t-shirt and he was tugged down into a kiss.

          He admitted it when Mickey let him go for a second.

          “Yeah…”

          He smiled shyly at Mickey, fingers tapping Mickey’s wrist because he had yet to let go of him. Mickey’s look of confusion only lasted for a second before he grinned wide and pulled Ian even closer, and right before Mickey crushed their lips together again, Ian murmured, “How could I not be?”

 

 

 

ELEVEN/THIRTEEN

 

          “Have you ever smoked a cigarette before?”

          Ian twisted his mouth at the question, not liking it at all. He swung his legs over the edge of his porch and didn’t answer, not at first. When he finally looked up, Mickey was smiling more gently than he’d expected, and then he blew a steady stream of smoke away, up towards the night sky.

          “No,” Ian answered finally. “My brother and sister do, though. All the time.”

          “It’s freeing,” Mickey said. Ian watched the cherry light up when Mickey sucked in again, and tracked his eyes up hungrily towards where Mickey’s lips were wrapped around it. He didn’t know what about them had him staring incessantly, but he didn’t stop until Mickey exhaled once more and rose his gaze to Ian’s.

          “It’s bad for you,” Ian said automatically, reciting one of the many lines from his school’s endless assemblies promoting being drug, alcohol, and cigarette free. Mickey just looked at him, and after a second Ian reached his hand out and curled his fingers into his palm a few times in a silent request to pass it over. Mickey watched him doubtfully, but Ian threw him a hard look, and he finally relented.

          Ian hesitantly put the cigarette between his lips, flicked one more glance at Mickey, then sucked in as hard as Mickey had before. He immediately started coughing uncontrollably, and Mickey snatched the cigarette from his mouth before it could fall to the ground below them and burn out in the grass. He was also laughing, but he still took the time to smack Ian upside the head.

          “Jesus, kill your lungs in one go, why don’t you?”

          Ian flipped him off through his hacking coughs. Mickey rolled his eyes and got up from the step, and Ian’s mouth was too preoccupied to protest, but he returned a minute later with a glass of water and pushed it into Ian’s hands.

          “Drink, you fuckin’ pussy.”

          Ian gulped down half the glass before he felt he could breathe again; when he lowered the cup onto the step beside him, he only coughed a little bit more before he settled completely.

          “Shit,” he gasped, and swiped his sleeve across his mouth. “I’m never smoking again.”

          Mickey leaned back on his hands, face turned towards the stars, but Ian caught him stealing a glance sideways. They both smiled a little.

          “You say that,” Mickey drawled, “but we’ll see.”

          “I’m not!” Ian insisted.

          “Living in this neighborhood?” Mickey snorted. “You’ll be smoking more than cigarettes, my friend.”

 

-

 

          Ian flickered his gaze between Mickey’s face and the joint in his hand, clasping his hands together and waiting for him to light it.

          “You gonna do this anytime soon, Milkovich?” he teased, elbowing Mickey in the side.

          Mickey laughed and shoved his shoulder. “Relax, _Gallagher_ ,” he snarked back. “Just wanna make sure your virgin lungs can handle it.”

          Ian rolled his eyes. “I’ve gotten high before, Mick. Lip lives off edibles nowadays.”

          “Ain’t the same thing, trust me. This is steadier. Plus I can’t wait to watch you cough it out; remember your first cigarette?”

          “Hey, I’m grown up now,” Ian protested. He made a move to snatch the joint from between Mickey’s fingers, but Mickey held it out of his reach, his other hand outstretched to push at Ian’s chest and stop him from moving any closer.

          “Alright, alright. Would you calm down? Come on, I wanna try something.”

          Ian eyed him carefully. “What?”

          Mickey threw him a smile that was somewhere between goofy and cocky and stuck the joint between his lips, raising the lighter up to the end. Right before he lit it, he mumbled around the joint, “Something special for your first time,” and then flicked the lighter.

          The joint lit up easily, because of course Mickey was a pro at this by now. Ian waited, fidgeting and huffing, for Mickey to pass it over, but Mickey just held it out of reach again when he finally took it out of his mouth. He held the joint away from Ian, by his opposite hip, and beckoned urgently for him to come nearer. Ian leaned forwards, watching him skeptically, and when he was near enough to count his eyelashes Mickey grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in for a hard, open-mouthed kiss. As soon as Ian’s lips parted, Mickey exhaled heavily, and smoke filled his mouth and throat and lungs.

          Mickey kissed him for another a few seconds, just lingering there, and then pulled away.

          “Wait a second, swallow, and exhale,” he instructed. A tickle was starting up the back of Ian’s throat, but he nodded anyway.

          Mickey watched him raptly, and Ian could feel his eyes tearing up after a few seconds, the itch in his throat becoming more incessant, more urgent. Mickey pressed his lips together and shook his head, urging him to hold on, but Ian only managed another few seconds before he exhaled and started coughing hard at the same time.

          Mickey just laughed, hand rubbing Ian’s back in hard, tight circles. Ian didn’t really notice until the coughing cleared up a bit, but when he did, he flushed slightly and leaned into the contact a little bit. Mickey bit his lip, a telltale sign that he was holding back a smile.

          “Try again in a few minutes?” Mickey offered when Ian regained his breath. Ian looked into his hopeful face and wasn’t about to say no. He still sighed theatrically, though, and rolled his eyes.

          “Anything to get you off my ass,” he said, and smiled.

 

 

 

TWELVE (THURSDAY AFTERNOON/THURSDAY MORNING)

 

          Ian noticed someone falling into step with him on his way home from school, and smiled when he saw who it was.

          “Hey, Mickey.” Mickey just stared at him, and when he didn’t smile back, Ian’s brow furrowed. “What’s up?”

          Mickey didn’t say anything for a minute or two, but Ian just hitched his backpack a little higher on his shoulders and waited for him to announce whatever was bothering him. Mickey usually did, in one roundabout way or another.

          “Heard a rumor about you today,” he said finally. He sounded casual, but he was watching Ian shrewdly when he looked up at him again.

          “Oh yeah?” Ian asked carefully. He took specific care _not_ to end up in the middle school rumor mill, as a general rule, and the fact that people had been talking about him—the fact that Mickey seemed to _believe_ them—had him chewing anxiously on the inside of his cheek.

          “Yeah.” Mickey gave him an awkward partial smile. “Why didn’t you tell me you finally asked out Carla, man?”

          That pulled Ian to a complete stop, and Mickey was a few steps in front of him when he turned around, looking at him with a weird expression.

          “What?” Ian managed. “I didn’t…Who?”

          “That girl from your science class,” Mickey elaborated. He was watching him closely—Ian felt more studied than his math textbook was nowadays—and seemed irritated beneath his attempt at insouciance. “I heard you asked her out during lunch. So…you know. Congratulations. Your first girlfriend and all…”

          “I didn’t ask out Carla,” Ian said blankly. His grip on his backpack got a little tighter. Mickey just stared at him, so Ian added, “I couldn’t have. I like someone else.”

          Something flashed across Mickey’s face, making his expression tighten like he’d tasted something sour, but he stifled it quickly and returned his usual collected, unaffected self. Ian looked away from him and started walking again, and felt Mickey join his pace after a second, catching back up to his side. They were partway down a shortcut through the woods when Mickey asked, in that same strange tone of determined indifference as before,

          “So…you like someone else, then? Who? That girl from gym?”

          Ian eyed him warily, but Mickey just looked at him, so he sighed and took whatever bait Mickey was throwing.

          “What girl from gym?” he asked wearily.

          “I don’t know, the one who always picks goalie when we play soccer. I saw you looking at her the other day, so I just figured…” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

          Ian mirrored his expression, though he was unimpressed. “Yeah, I was looking at her…because she was guarding the goal. Shit, what is with you today?”

          “Nothing, Jesus,” Mickey snapped. “Fuck me for asking two simple fucking questions.”

          “Well, I don’t like any girl from anywhere!” Ian sniped back. “God, just forget it.”

          Mickey grabbed his wrist and tugged him to another stop. He pulled him around to face him, and Ian went, rolling his eyes and sighing.

          “No, go on,” Mickey said like he was challenging him to do something brave, or awful. “You said you did. Who is it? Your lab partner? Group project? Come on.”

          “Why the hell do you care?” Ian shouted, throwing his hands up around his head. He wasn’t sure why they were fighting about this, but Mickey was angry, so his pulse was spiking too. “Jesus Christ, why won’t you leave this alone?”

          Mickey looked at him for two seconds before he grabbed his wrists, pried his arms away from his face, and kissed him.

          It was quick; Ian made a little sound of surprise and Mickey pulled away, looking wild and alarmed, back on his guard in an instant.

          “Fuck!” he muttered. He swiped his hand over his face; his eyes were darting wildly around like he expected a SWAT team to jump out of the nearby bushes and arrest him for his indiscretion, but they were still alone. “I don’t—you can’t—”

          Ian leaned up on his toes and pressed his lips to Mickey’s one more time, partially for himself but also to get Mickey to stop stuttering so madly. The kiss was soft, but firm. Meaningful.

          “Okay?” Ian asked, when he was back on his own flat feet and he and Mickey were just looking at each other.

          Mickey visibly relaxed. He was quiet for a second or two. “Okay,” he agreed finally.

          Ian gave him a little smile and they started walking again. The silence between them felt different than usual, like maybe one of them should fill it now instead of the quiet being comfortable and normal like it customarily was.

          “So does that make us boyfriends now?” he blurted.

          He flushed, but Mickey smiled over at him. “I wanna be boyfriends now,” he said.

          Ian smiled back. They kept walking, nothing left to say, both grinning to themselves, and their knuckles brushed against each other every couple of steps.

 

-

 

          Ian shouldered his backpack as he jammed a whole piece of toast in his mouth, trying to eat and rush around the kitchen cramming supplies into his bag at the same time.

          “Come on, come on!” Fiona helped him fully into his backpack straps and shoved another piece of toast into his hand. “You’re late, come on, let’s go! LIP!” she yelled suddenly up the stairs. “You’re missing first period, let’s _go_!”

          Their brother came stumbling down the stairs after a minute, rubbing his eyes tiredly and heading straight for the fridge. Ian darted around him, trying not to knock into Debbie or Carl as they also rushed around the kitchen trying to finish readying themselves for school.

          “Let’s go, let’s go!”

          Fiona finished making sure they all had breakfast in hand and started ushering them for the door. They crowded into the front entrance and jostled together for goodbye hugs before Fiona pushed them out the door. She got to Ian last, and folded him in a brief embrace.

          “Be good; stay safe; have fun,” she whispered in his ear. “Go.”

          She gave him a push out onto the porch, and he turned around to smile at her from the top of the stairs.

          “Don’t worry,” he said. “I feel like today’s gonna be a really great day.”

**Author's Note:**

> _(title from She’s Thunderstorms by Arctic Monkeys)_
> 
> [hmu](http://absolutqueen.tumblr.com) on tumblr; aus breathe new life into me


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